


The Eleventh Inning

by tismabel



Category: Pitch (TV 2016)
Genre: Baseball, F/M, MLB, Mike is just a mess, Romance, Work In Progress, mega-superstar Ginny
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-09
Updated: 2016-10-09
Packaged: 2018-08-20 10:04:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8245213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tismabel/pseuds/tismabel
Summary: Mike’s therapist says he romanticizes the past because he’s afraid of the future. But this is the truth. In a hotel room after celebrating their World Series victory, Mike and his star pitcher Ginny Baker had drunkenly fucked around. Ten years ago, fucking around with Ginny Baker had kinda fucked Mike up.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Praemonitus praemunitus. This is a work in progress. Also, kinda sad so far, but it will have a happy ending.

Mike sometimes wonders, as he stares out the small viewport window beside his seat, just how much of his life he’s spent on airplanes. He thinks it could be weeks by this point, or even months. After a nineteen year career in the majors and seven years as a color commentator for Fox Sports, his carbon footprint must be astronomical.

The invitation to the premier had come out of the blue. He knew they were making a new instalment of Ken Burn’s famous baseball documentary series of course. Had been interviewed by a film crew for it several years ago in fact. But after that long day of dredging up memories about those sublime years in San Diego, he’d promptly dropped the whole thing from his mind like unwanted loose change.

When the embossed envelope had arrived, a handwritten note from Mr Burn’s himself inside, it suddenly dawned on Mike, his chest hollow and his throat dry, that eight years of successfully avoiding Ginny Baker were about to come to an end.

He feels exhausted as he makes his way to the luggage carousel at JFK. A seventh inning kind of exhaustion that wraps around him with a familiar, dulling ache. Checking his phone he sees there are three voicemails and four texts. He listens to the first one from his agent Terry.

“Michael, I’ve arranged a driver to pick you up from the United terminal and take you to the hotel. The tux will have been delivered by then. Don’t hesitate to call me if you have any last minute concerns. Don’t worry about the press conference. See you on the red carpet!!”

The next message is from Blip Sanders. “Hey Pintamonas!” Mike winces at the insult. Blip seems to have retained only a selection of Spanish vernacular from the Dominican contingent of the clubhouse, all of it swearwords. “If you get in before five let me know, we can catch up for a drink. Otherwise I’ll see you there bud. Been too long.”

The last one is from reporter doing some fact checking on a story being written about Ken Burn’s The Eleven Inning. There is a lot of interest in the new film, especially after the subject became known.

The incorporation of women into major league baseball was an ongoing struggle in some ways. While they’d never outnumber their male counterparts, in the last ten years several dozen talented women had carved out a niche in the sport as off-speed pitchers and scrappy lead-off hitters. Their unique physicality and innovation was transforming the sport, bringing back a sort of mythic resonance the nation’s national pastime.

And the public ate it up. With each new female addition to a team’s lineup, unprecedented numbers of fans showed up and tuned in. Sports writers, cultural aficionados, academics and political activists all wrote tomes about the greatest revolution the game had seen since Jackie Robinson slapped on the number 42. In many ways it was a golden era for baseball.

And the first and brightest star among them was the woman Mike Lawson had mentored through two tumultuous, dazzling years with the San Diego Padres. Two years under the brilliant summer sky, lit up by the zeitgeist and blessed by fate. Two years of making history before Mike Lawson, MVP all-star, and team captain of the World Series winning Padres, had abruptly thrown in his catcher’s mitt and left his beloved emerald green field behind for good.

Mike’s therapist says he romanticizes the past because he’s afraid of the future. But this is the truth. In a hotel room after celebrating their victory over the entirety of baseball, Mike and his wunderkind pitcher Ginny Baker had drunkenly fucked around. Ten years ago, fucking around with Ginny Baker had kinda fucked Mike up.

***

It had been a huge story when Mike announced his retirement two days after the World Series. The team had made it there with grit and luck, and not insignificantly Mike’s month long hot streak at the bat. There wasn’t anything in his life, before or since, that could compare to those few magical weeks in October.

Once again Mike compartmentalizes that train of thought before it really goes off the rails.

Mike quickly checks his emails (more ex-teammates wanting to catch-up, several solicitations for interviews), pockets his phone and makes his way over to the carousel. He spots his bag and make his way to the glass doors and the cold, bright November afternoon in New York City.

When he arrives at his room he deposits his bags on the bed and makes a beeline for the mini-bar. The little cupboard is mercifully stocked with decent sized bottles of liquor, not those piddly little shot sized bottles that usually cost the GDP of a small country.

The plan, Mike has decided, is to remain moderately inebriated throughout the next eight hours. He selects a bottle of Jack and rejoices as it burns its way down his throat, liquid courage and a bad idea.

***

In the intervening years Mike has stayed around the fringes of the game. He picks up healthy fees for his expert commentary and analysis. He’s mastered the art of the quippy and insightful spiel. His sharp catchers mind able to assess the angles of the game and communicate in simple language, a skill he’d needed as a team captain and leader and that was turning out to be lucrative in the world of broadcast sports. His appearances are in demand, so he has the luxury of picking and choosing when and where he’ll add his two cents.

As such, he’d found it easy to avoid having to say anything substantial about Ginny Baker and her meteoric career for many years. By the time Ken Burn’s approached him to share his experiences of those heady days in San Diego, Mike expected the public’s insatiable appetite for Ginnsanity to have abated a bit.

But as the limo rolls up to the premieres’ red carpet he clutches his traveller and takes one final swig. Sees a massive crowd and popping flashes of dozens of cameras. He can handle a crowd, learned to work one years ago. But that was another life and he’s never felt so mentally precarious, so ill-prepared for the trial he’s about to face. Thinks his alcohol slickened voice will probably betray him. Can see the crash coming from a mile away.

He steps out of the limo and Terry is at his elbow a second later, already chattering away mid-sentence. Mike’s so grateful he could almost cry. Terry is twittering on about their schedule and ushering them past the crowds lining the footpath. Some of them yell out “Mike, Mike! Can I get an autograph” and a few journos wave their dictaphones at him.

“Can we just get inside please?” He implores Terry as he grits his teeth and smiles. The other man looks over at him, confusion suddenly coloring his expression.

Terry, quick witted though he is, says “Sure but can we just talk for minute with-?”.

“No Interviews.” Mike cuts him off. He, hopes he doesn’t come off too badly for snubbing them all. He just has to make it inside and hide in a corner, preferably somewhere near the bar. Anyhow, most of the crowd are clamoring for a glimpse of their idol, not him. Some of them carry placards with slogans like “WE DID IT” and “I *heart* Ginny. I *heart* MLB”. Totems of their adoration flapping around in the breeze.

They move inside to the reception area and Terry hands him his seat allocation and says “I’ll be back, I just need to speak with Martha and Bob at CBS.” He looks at Mike, confused concern evident in his eyes. “What’s up with you tonight? Are you coming down with something?” He goes to put his hand to Mike’s forehead but Mike flinches away abruptly. Terry is now edging towards alarm. “Look I know you don’t like doing these things anymore but this is a big deal. We’ve got great crossover potential here, a national audience Mike. You can get enough exposure to set your career up for years to come and…”

Mike sucks in a breath. “Yeah, Ok, just do your thing. I’ll be by the bar.” He spins around and makes his way towards the closest waiter carrying a silver platter and grabs a flute of champagne.

There are familiar faces encroaching around him, like ghosts floating out of the void. Mike’s eyes skitter over them, trying not to get drawn in. He doesn’t want to have any conversations right now about the good old days. Thinks in this moment his voice would crack over it and all the sadness and longing would come pouring out. He’s ridiculous. Tries not to think about why his mind is pulling all this drama queen bullshit on him right now. Is sure his therapist would be very interested in today’s proceedings. Want to painfully go over the area with a fine tooth comb, like a beachcomber searching for shiny silver pennies.

Moving over the bar he replaces his empty glass with one of the full ones lined up neatly for the guests. Unwisely gulping down it’s contents, he looks out at the room again his stomach tightens as he sees her. She’s surrounded by a crowd clamouring for attention and he’s pathetically grateful for that. Hopes she doesn’t spot him before he can disappear into the theatre for a few more hours of reprieve, cowardly even after all these years.

Someone slaps him on the back and almost send his glass flying. It’s Blip, his eyes bright as he surveys Mike. “How about this fucking circus man? Can you believe it?” They embrace and Mike hears the sound in his mind of ice cracking. They were always tight, he and Blip, and have seen each other regularly well into both their retirements. Mike had even visited Blip and Evelyn in Scottsdale a couple a times over the years.

“How you doing man?” Mike smiles.

“Ah useless as a mule in paddock full of fillies. I got this goddamned third baseman who won’t listen and management is pushing me to get him in shape before April call ups” and Blip is off and running about his life and his new job as the triple-A minors coach with the Padres farm team. Mike nods occasionally but feels hot and fevered, the threads of conversation slipping out of his grasp. He’s acutely aware that the reception area is only so large and wants to escape to his seat before she makes her way into his vicinity and Blip calls out to her.

His friend had never called him on what went down all those years ago. He’s sure Evelyn figured it out, perhaps Blip told her. Or Ginny.

And his mind shies away from that train of thought quick as you like and he interrupts Blips rant about the umpires’ union. “Hey I’m gonna hit the head before this show get’s on the road. I’ll see you at the press conference afterwards yeah?” His sight is on Ginny, panic creeping into the whites of his eyes.

Blip’s tone goes flat and low. “It was one night man. Both of you were drunk and high on that win. You need to get past this Mike. It’s not healthy”

And, oh brave new world, and here they are after years of skirting around the issue. Blip and his perfect fucking timing. Mike wants to say “I’m sorry dude. But I live and breathe that fucking night. It’s the best my life has ever been.” Wants to say “You don’t understand, I couldn’t stay. It would have annihilated us.” Wants to say “I loved her. I think I still do.”

But instead he says “Are you kidding. That’s ancient history. She’s married now. What’s his name? Tim? John? The basketballer.” Mike knows exactly what his name is.

“Tom.” and Blip sighs “You always did fixate too much”.

And ain’t that the goddamned truth. It probably isn’t safe for Mike to stay in this conversation any longer, so he makes his excuses and heads to the men’s room. It’s one of those fancy, marble lined ones with an attendant handing out warm towelettes. Mike takes one and escapes to a cubicle. He sits on the closed toilet seat, his face in his hands, gulping in long breaths and feeling suffocated in the cologne drenched air. His mind feels fuzzed from alcohol.

That night, in the hotel room after the world series, they’d passed out for awhile. Mike had woken up with the past and future still perfectly blank. He remembers shifting up so that his chest locked into the space between Ginny’s shoulder blades, and lazily pushing his hand down over her stomach with no sense urgency. Ginny was still breathing deeply but awoke with a moan and a jerk, cuffed Mike’s wrist and pushed back against him. Mike could feel all that strength and sinew, running his fingers up the endless slant of her sides, hooking his feet around her ankles.

Mostly sober, that was what was wrong with it the second time. Mostly sober, half-asleep, knowing entirely what he was doing when he wedged Ginny’s legs apart with his knee and licked across the back of her neck and angled her onto her back. And turning her around he’d moved over her, his hands sliding restlessly down her stomach, her hips, between her thighs. Her mouth, sleep-soft, sucking on the curve of his shoulder. Rocking into her, closing the liminal space between drunken mistake and veering off a cliff. Looking down to see the flash of Ginny’s eyes, looking up, bright and aware and sober too.

“You think she’s gonna sign with Mets next year? I hear they’re interested” The male voice interrupts Mike’s reverie. He’d zoned out.

“How much they offering? Can’t see her taking less than 100 mil. Unless she’s wanting to be closer to the East Coast. Doesn’t her husband play for Brooklyn” Another voice replies as the men move into the bathroom.

Suddenly it occurs to him that he should never should have come here. Doesn’t matter that it was one night years ago. From the day they’d laid eyes on each other they’d been stamped with big red letters: inevitable. For two years they danced around it, keeping at arm’s length, all the while that ember smouldering away. Keeping it tamped down, both of them. Knowing they could never act on it, not when they were both standing on this stage, their every move and interaction on the field analysed. Dissected like bugs under a glass. Eyes on them in the clubhouse, at press conferences, fundraisers.

In the end it had taken that amazing, historical late season run to get them there. Flushed with victory and stunned by the unlikeliest turn of events. Thinking about it trips a wire in Mike’s chest. He’s back there standing at the precipice, both of them there waiting for the other to call chicken. But neither of them had.

And afterwards he knew it could never happen again. For a million reasons that didn’t come to mind that night. Also knew that he wouldn’t be able to stop if he was within ten yards of her. Would be so obvious that everyone would see it written all over his face. He was caught up in the web of his infatuation with her and it was dragging him under fast.

So he’d done the only thing he could. His manager thought he was mad. Said he had another one or two seasons left in his knees. Couldn’t understand why he’d want to retire now when the team had so much potential, fresh from victory, bankrolled for the forseeable future. But Mike was locked into his decision, mind atrophied and charging head first into the void of his worst self-destructive tendencies.

And the day of the ticker-tape parade through the Gaslamp quarter of San Diego, when the ring of the cheering crowds had cleared from his ears and the street cleaners had swept away the debri of celebration, Mike Lawson announced his retirement to a room full of shocked teammates and reporters and studiously avoided that betrayed set of brown eyes boring into his soul.

Thirty-nine years old and done with baseball. Mike had left the press-conference thinking the that the rest of life was going to be the longest off-season ever.

Nine fucking years later and here he is, hiding in a bathroom. Nine years and never has he been in her vicinity for more than a couple of hours. A World Series ring presentation here, an Inside Baseball appearance there. Always at arm’s length. Journalists and ex-teammates and clamouring fans keeping them apart. Keeping Mike safe from the full, crippling force of Ginny Baker. Coward that he is.

The only time they’d got close to a meaningful conversation was at a celebrity baseball game in Anaheim, six years after his retirement. Ginny was on the opposing team and Mike had exceeded everyone’s expectations by hitting two triples early in the game. Their match-up was all anyone was talking about, the master/apprentice face-off far too inviting a narrative to resist.

When he came up to face her in the eighth, her first pitch had him jerking back and losing his balance. A high fastball, three inches from his adam’s apple. He’d shaken it off, laughing a bit for the cameras. But the next one came searing towards the side of his head and Mike went crashing down to the ground, his head rattling around in his helmet, ears ringing.

This time when Mike got up he felt blind angry, yelling what the fuck do you think you’re doing, that was bush league, and Ginny’s eyes were lit and furious as she came down off the mound. Ready to go at it for real and the only thing that stopped them having an actual out and out brawl was that the benches had cleared by that time and the other players were swarming the field. They’d been immediately asked to leave the game, to the delight of the press and tomorrow sports page editorials and thereafter he and Ginny had the dubious honor of starting the only ever fracas at meaningless celebrity baseball game.

So obviously they had some issues to work out, and after that everyone knew it.

Finally he works up the nerve to leave the stall. The other men had come and gone and Mike’s grateful to be alone except for the attendant who's conspicuously wiping down the clean counter and not making eye contact with the guy who just spent ten minutes in a bathroom stall.

The sallow lights make him looked strung out in the mirror, bruised patches under his eyes or maybe that’s just what he always looks like these days. Jesus, no wonder the attendants avoiding his gaze, probably thinks Mike’s gonna beat him up for money to get his next fix. He scrubs a hand through his short clipped beard then check his phone. Five minutes to curtains up, counting down like a timer on a bomb.

There’s nothing left for it then. He swings by the bar one last time then makes his way to the auditorium entrance. The usher checks his ticket and directs him right to the front of the theatre where the VIP seats are filling up quickly. There’s a lot of big names here tonight. From baseball and showbiz. He spots Terry in his row and Mike has to maneuver his way past the tuxedoed major league players and hollywood stars already seated in his row.

He’s used to being stared at, is relatively famous in most circles. But the others in his row gawk up at him, their eyes bright with unabashed curiosity at his late entrance and he tries not to squirm under there attention. Still feeling unsettled, like he’s expecting a hole to open up before him, tripping over himself and toppling into oblivion. He rushes past them, impatient to get to his seat and sink down out of sight.

And Mike know’s there’s moments in life when everything that came before crashes down like the break of a wave. Has always been a bit romantic that way. When fate seems to laugh at you and beckon you and generally obliterate you all at once.

Nineteen years old in the east coast collegiate league with the white-hot sun strumming down on his shoulders, realizing for the first time that his swing was sweeter and better than any of those other boys, and that he might just go all the way.

Twenty-five and grounding out in the bottom of the ninth, losing his first pennant race with the eyes of the known world upon him, thinking he’d never recover from the heartbreak.

Forty-six years old and seeing the nameplate on the seat next to his. Ginny Baker. Major league superstar. Ex-teammate and estranged friend. Wife of another man and love of his fucking life.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry, that was cruel. But there will be a follow up to this. Ginny has been waiting off stage left. Waiting for her cue.


End file.
